


Where My Demons Hide

by MCRmyGeneral



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: And yet I regret nothing, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Daryl shows his soft side, I sincerely apologize, I'm going to hell for writing this, I'm terrible, M/M, Pedophilia, Rape, Underage Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MCRmyGeneral/pseuds/MCRmyGeneral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shriek. That was the only fitting word. Carl shrieked and wriggled and tried to fight, though his small muscles were no match for the older man’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Season 4, episode 16 "A", rewrite! Where Dan doesn't stop and Rick is too late.
> 
> I am so sorry to all of you... I'm evil... But from the very first time I saw the season 4 finale, I knew I wanted to write a fic where Carl doesn't get saved. I'm sorry...
> 
> Title is from 'Demons' by Imagine Dragons.

“How you holding up?” Michonne asked quietly.

Rick blew out a heavy sigh. “I'm holding up. I'm more worried about _him_ ," He admitted, nodding to the broken down car where Carl was sleeping in the backseat.

“Don’t be,” She answered, rubbing a knot from her shoulder, “He’s strong. He’ll make it. He’ll be okay.”

“This world is changing him. I know it’s survival of the fittest and I know he’s only doing what he needs to make it,” Rick said, scrubbing his hands over his face, “But he’s grown up so fast. Sometimes I just wish he could be a kid again.”

Michonne shook her head. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Rick, but he’ll never be that kid again. He's a man now. And he’s saved both our asses on more than one occasion,” She laughed.

Rick cracked a smile, too, before looking up at the night sky, watching the stars for a moment. “I think back to before, and I try to imagine what we’d be doing now if nothing had changed. I’d be working late nights, trying to get my promotion to Sheriff. Lori would be staying home watching Judith,” Rick said, his voice cracking when he said his lost daughter’s name. he cleared his throat to cover it. “Carl would be starting his freshman year now, asking me about girls and I’d be trying to help him with his homework,” He chuckled.

Michonne chuckled, too. But suddenly she froze, and then perked up like a dog. “What was that?”

Rick set his hand on his Python, though not unholstering it just yet. “What was what?” He whispered.

Michonne didn’t answer. She just focused on trying to differentiate the rustling of leaves from the wind, possible animals, and walkers. She, too reached for her weapon, her fingers barely grazing the handle of her sword before she felt the cold barrel of a gun muzzle against the back of her head.

“Don’t make any sudden movements. Take that hand off the weapon and set it on your leg.”

Michonne was furious at having been bested, and even more furious at having to obey the orders given to her by this random man. But for the sake of her companions, she did as she was told.

Just as Rick wrapped his hand around the stock of his gun, he felt another gun against the his temple.

“Take it out of the holster and hand it over,” The second man ordered, low and menacing.

Rick took a deep breath and did as the man instructed, taking the gun from it’s sheath and handing it to the man, who tucked it in his belt.

Michonne’s lip trembled in anger as she glared at the man hovering over her. It scared _Rick_. The full force of Michonne's scowl could bring even the strongest men to their knees.

Rick took in the tanned man with his gun to Michonne's head, and then he looked up at his own captor. Large, muscled, though a bit stockier than his own lean, taut frame. Rick could easily take him, and the only reason he couldn’t now was because the man had the element of surprise.

“Dan,” The man by Rick called, and three more men stepped out from the woods, one with two lengths of silky black rope. He held them out to the apparent ringleader, who roughly yanked both Rick's hands behind his back, tying them together tightly. He then repeated the action on Michonne's hands.

“What are we doing here, Joe?” Came a rough, weathered voice walking out from the bushes.

Both Rick and Michonne whipped their heads around to stare at the crossbow-toting redneck they knew so well.

“Rick!” Daryl gasped as he set his eyes on the man on the ground. “Michonne! You guys made it!” He almost yelled, rushing over to them. But he was stopped by a gun pointed at his chest.

“You _know_ them?” One of the men asked.

“Yeah. They were at the prison with me. They're good people.”

The man behind Rick, Joe, apparently, cackled. “Good people? They killed one of ours!”

“ _He_ attacked _me_ ,” Rick grunted, and was rewarded with a pistol smashed into the back of his head. He fell forward and wrung his hands, sadly finding that the rope that held him was secure.

“I knew you weren’t one of us, Daryl,” Joe sighed, grabbing a handful of Rick's hair and hauling him to his knees.

“You, too,” One of the other men directed to Michonne, grabbing her arm and repositioning her to her knees.

She jerked away from his touch. “Don’t touch me,” She growled.

The man laughed and smacked her, the crack of skin on skin echoing through the clearing.

“Get your hands off her!” Rick yelled at the same time Daryl rushed forward, not caring about the gun digging into his chest.

“You mother-“

Four hands grabbed him and dragged him away, across the clearing.

Carl groaned and rubbed his eyes, groggy for only a second, until he realized that if his father was screaming at all, let alone loud enough to wake him up, that something was wrong. He slowly inched his head up, peeking through the windshield. His father and Michonne were both on their knees, both with weapons to their heads. There were three guys guarding them. A quick glance to his left brought a sharp gasp as he saw Daryl taking fist after fist to the face.

He looked back at his father, catching his eye. Unfortunately, he knew the look on his father’s face all too well.

Clamping his hand over his mouth, Carl quickly but carefully shimmied off the seat, tucking himself in the space meant for legs. He grabbed his knife and readied himself for attack. Breathing hard but quietly, he listened to the conversation.

“What do you think, boys? Quickly, put him out of his misery? Or nice and slow?”

The strange men cackled.

Joe happened to look down at the ground, where he saw tracks in the leaves. Shoes, but a quick look at his captives told him that these prints didn’t belong to either of them.

“Dan,” Joe said suddenly, and the tone of his voice made all heads turn in his direction.

There was a second of silence when the fists and Daryl's groaning stopped.

“Check the car.”

Carl gasped and gripped his knife tighter.

“It’s just us,” Rick offered, “Me and the girl. That’s it.”

“That’s nice,” Joe said sarcastically, “Check the car,” He repeated.

“No!” Rick choked out, struggling against his ties again, to no avail.

Carl listened carefully, listening to the footsteps coming closer. A strange face appeared in the window and smirked.

“Well, well,” He drawled, opening the back door and reaching for the boy.

Carl didn’t think, he just lunged, driving his knife as deep as he could into the strange man's shoulder.

“Motherfucker!” The man yelled. He quickly recovered, though, grabbing for Carl and wrestling him onto the seat. Carl was no match for the man, and unfortunately was pinned in seconds. He felt blood spill over him from the wound on the man’s shoulder as he ripped the knife from his flesh.

Rick, Michonne and Daryl watched in horror, seeing only Carl's legs kicking from behind the door.

The man took a few steps back, dragging Carl from the car. He held him securely, his hand fisted roughly in Carl's hair. Carl groaned and tried to break free, not caring how much hair was ripped out in the process. But Dan now held Carl's knife, and he pressed it carefully to the boy’s throat.

“Let him go!” Rick yelled, trying to stand, but hindered by his lack of balance. Joe kicked him in the back, and he fell face-first into the leaves. Joe set a foot on the back of his neck.

“Dad!” Carl grunted, struggling even more, until Dan had to press the sharp edge of his knife under his jaw. Carl winced as he felt the small slice, and blood trickled down his neck.

“Carl!” Daryl groaned, and Carl looked over to the man he knew so well, crumpled on the ground. He looked just in time to see a rather sharp kick to his ribs.

“Well,” Dan said, his voice almost triumphant, “He’s not a beautiful young woman, but he’ll do in a pinch! Claimed!” he laughed as Carl squirmed in his grasp.

“Have at him,” Joe said calmly, hauling Rick back up to his knees. “As for Daryl,” He said to the other men, “Teach him all the way.”

Dan threw Carl on the ground with such force that Rick and Michonne both flinched. The other two men continued their assault on Daryl.

Rick saw the fear in Carl’s eyes as he could do nothing but stare up at the man looming over him.

“Carl!” He yelled. “I swear to Christ, if you _fucking_ touch him!”

Suddenly, Joe's gun was pushed against Rick's throat, the cold metal pushing insistently against the skin.

“If you stop screaming,” Joe warned, low and evilly, “Maybe we won’t bleed him when we’re through.”

Carl tried to crawl away from his attacker, but the man stomped his foot down on Carl's wrist, the snap of bone cracking almost sickeningly loud against the background noise of blows landing on Daryl's body, and the heavy breathing.

Carl cried out in pain, cradling his wrist against his chest.

Rick moved to stand again, not caring about the gun against his throat, but before he could, Dan dropped to his knees, holding Carl's own knife against his neck.

“One more move, daddy, and you're gonna know exactly what baby boy’s blood looks like as it pools around his lifeless body!”

Rick drew in a breath, but stilled his movements.

“Get it over with, Dan,” Joe said, his voice scarily calm, “I’m next.”

Dan grunted in response, and worked to turn Carl over onto his stomach. Carl squirmed and resisted, even _with_ his broken wrist. Though the broken bone held him back, and Dan rolled him over with minimal effort, fisting one hand in Carl's hair and unzipping his pants with the other.

“No, please! Stop! Stop!” Carl whimpered as the man straddling his thighs shoved a hand under him to work at the boy’s fly. Michonne squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears leaking from beneath her lids.

Rick watched in helpless terror as Carl's jeans and underwear were jerked down his thighs, sudden bright expanses of flesh glowing in the moonlight.

“Please,” Rick pleaded in a last-ditch effort that everyone knew wasn’t going to work. “I’ll do anything, just please let him go. He’s only fourteen, for fuck’s sake!”

The utter defeat in Rick’s voice terrified Carl even more than the man on top of him. He'd never known his father to surrender; he was a fighter. But in his voice, Carl could tell that he'd already given up.

“Everybody’s gotta lose it sometime,” Dan laughed, and then there was a pressure probing at Carl's entrance. He struggled and squirmed and clenched his muscles as tightly as he could, but the man above him grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back before slamming it down on the ground. Carl's nose crunched and warm blood rushed from both nostrils. At the same time, he felt Dan begin to push into him.

Shriek. That was the only fitting word. Carl shrieked and wriggled and tried to fight, though his small muscles were no match for the older man’s. Dan drew all the way out and shoved back in, not wasting any time with gentleness. Carl grunted and screamed, but couldn’t shake the man.

The pain was more than he could’ve imagined, and he howled as he felt the sensitive flesh tear, and the warm liquid trail down the insides of his thighs, pooling beneath his groin. Dan groaned at the slip and slide the blood gave.

The man on top of him moaned as he fucked the helpless boy without any reservations, hard and fast and Carl was gasping and hissing and whimpering and screaming, but mostly sobbing.

“Stop, please,” He panted, both his body and mind too weak to continue his fight. He turned his head to the side, and Dan pushed on it as hard as he could, locking it in place. Carl's shattered wrist was caught underneath his chest, and his other arm was braced against the ground. He let his eyes slip closed.

“Carl,” Rick choked through his tears, and Carl's eyes shot open, tear-filled blue eyes of his own meeting the tear-filled blue eyes of his father.

“Dad,” Carl whispered, and Rick could feel his heart break. Carl had stopped resisting, instead just laying limp and letting his body be ravaged. Seeing his boy give up, seeing the downfall in his eyes hurt Rick more than any bullet or knife could have.

The man on top of Carl got louder, and Carl knew what was happening by the new warmth he felt inside him. Ejaculation. That was the textbook term he'd learned in sixth grade. Life at the prison taught him other words. The man had come inside him.

As soon as the hand was off his head, Carl turned away, not bearing to look in his father’s eyes any longer. There were so many emotions in them: rage, sorrow, apology, disgust, hate. Carl had never felt dirtier, more embarrassed or ashamed in his entire life.

Though the man had stood, Carl made no attempt to flee. There was so much pain. His nose, his wrist, his hips, ass and thighs were all on fire. He hoped they'd just take mercy on him and kill him now. The leader said that he was next. Carl hoped to whatever God was listening that they’d just put a bullet in his head, instead of all the men taking their turns with him, hurting him and using him as nothing more than a fucktoy. He’d rather die a slow, painful death being torn apart by walkers than have to be raped again.

He didn’t turn his head back or open his eyes. He just squeezed them shut, whimpering and crying and panting and letting the tears slip down his face to the dirt below him. He could heat Daryl grunting as he was kicked repeatedly, until suddenly, it stopped. Carl was afraid he'd died, until someone else started grunting.

“You fucking… bastard… pervert…disgusting… I oughta fucking rape _you_!” Daryl roared, punctuating his words with blows to an unknown body. There were two men groaning, and Carl flinched when he heard what he knew was a bolt flying from Daryl's crossbow, then another. And then the groaning stopped.

There was the sound of rope fraying and feet stomping.

“No, please!”

Rick started grunting and more blows were landing.

“I told you, you sick, twisted motherfucker!”

Flesh ripped and blood splashed to the ground as his father and Daryl grunted and growled. Carl didn’t know exactly _what_ they were doing; he still had his head turned away and his eyes closed. But he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to know.

Against the squelching of blood and guts, there was a soft rustling, and Carl jumped when two soft lips pressed against his sweat-damp temple. A warm hand brushed his cheek.

“Carl? Are you conscious?”

“Fucking hurts, Mich,” He sighed. It was over. He wasn’t gonna be raped again. More tears escaped his eyes in relief, but he still didn’t open them.

“Just relax. Daryl!” She called.

Carl felt dirt kick up as Daryl dropped to his knees beside the boy.

“You okay, bud?” He asked softly, softer than Carl had ever heard him speak before.

He shook his head weakly.

“I know,” Daryl whispered. “I gotta turn you over, okay? We gotta get you dressed.”

Fuck it. He was already as mortified and ashamed as he'd ever imagined he could be. He nodded, and his body tensed involuntarily in pain as four hands rolled him over as gently as they could. Two gasps rang out, and Carl assumed they were either for his shattered nose, or the puddle of blood he’s been lying in. Unfortunately, he also assumed it was the latter.

Thankfully, it was only Daryl's hands Carl felt tugging his pants up and tucking him back beneath them. Even through the shock and adrenaline, he really didn’t want Michonne touching or even _seeing_ his dick.

The ripping of flesh in the background finally stopped, and Carl felt two more hands, one brushing the hair from his face, and the other gingerly, carefully moving him until he was cradled in his father’s lap. Rick hugged him to his chest, gently rocking him. Carl could feel Rick's chest shaking with silent sobs.

“Carl,” He whimpered, and only then did Carl finally open his eyes, just barely. Rick was covered, literally _covered_ in blood, it was coating his skin and dripping from his beard. Thankfully, though, none of it appeared to be his.

Carl smiled weakly. “You look like hell, Dad. What did you do to him?”

Rick set his forehead against his son’s. “Carl, I'm so sorry.”

“I’m okay, Dad. I'm okay, I’ll be fine,” Carl said softly, trying comfort his father.

Rick just rocked him and sobbed.


	2. Chapter 2

When Michonne woke the next morning, they were still together. Carl had fallen asleep in his father’s arms, and Rick just held him. She looked over to where they were laying together. Rick's arms encircling his son, who was curled in a ball, his head against Rick's neck, tucked under his chin. They were both breathing softly, their tears having dried sometime during the night. She almost didn’t want to wake them. But the sun had already been up for a few hours, and the smell of the blood might be attracting walkers.

She offered to wake the pair while Daryl hunted for food. She dropped to her knees beside them, and reached a slow, tentative hand out to brush Carl's hair out of his face. Even in his sleep, he tensed at her touch, and it broke her heart.

“Rick. Rick,” She whispered, shaking the other man softly. He yawned and tightened his arms around his son, pulling him closer before he opened his eyes.

He didn’t say anything about last night, and she didn’t either, for which he was grateful. They just looked at each other, engaging in the silent conversations they sometimes had, where it was almost as if they could read each other’s mind. Michonne was telling Rick that it wasn’t his fault, but Rick was just blaming himself.

His son had just lost the very last scrap of innocence he had left. Actually, it had been stolen from him, while Rick just watched, unable to stop it. He had never felt such guilt or sadness, not even with Lori’s death. Or Judith’s.

Both pairs of eyes landed on Carl when he moved, simply tucking his head in closer to his father.

“We need to get moving,” Michonne said quietly.

Rick sighed, but nodded. He pressed a kiss to the top of Carl's head before he loosened his grip on the boy.

When Carl felt that security slacken, he nearly whimpered and tried to scoot closer to his father.

“Carl,” Rick whispered, shaking him as gently as he could. Carl groaned and yawned. “Carl.”

The boy opened his eyes slowly, at first wondering why he was so wrapped up in his father. Then he tried to move his hips to roll over, and a jolt of pain traveled from his ass up his spine, to all the most sensitive nerves in his body. And just like that, with that simple movement, he felt nearly more pain than he’d ever felt before, mostly centered in his wrist and his ass. And with the pain came the memory of exactly _why_ he was so sore.

Rick and Michonne could both tell the second he remembered, because his face fell from pain to pure anguish.

“Dad,” He breathed, and Rick went back to crushing the boy against his chest. Carl was all too willing, wrapping his good arm around his dad.

Carl sniffled once, and then gathered every bit of strength he had, finally pulling away.

“We should move. We can’t stay in one place too long,” He announced, surprised by how level his voice was when he was about a second and a half from bursting into tears. He pulled himself into a sitting position, ignoring the horrible ache in his pelvis. He kept his face as composed as he could, trying not to let on that he was scared and hurting and how much he really, _really_ wanted to curl in a ball and sob.

Michonne and Rick both offered hands to help him stand, but he just smiled, rolled his eyes, and pushed their hands away. He walked over to Daryl (trying to conceal his limp), who had just emerged from the woods with two owls. Carl told Daryl all about the pudding with a smile as he helped him pluck the birds one-handed. Daryl shot Michonne and Rick a confused look. Rick waved it off, telling him not to worry as he, too sat up.

“He’s gonna ignore it, isn’t he?” Michonne asked.

Rick sighed and nodded. “He’s trying to be strong. He won’t talk about it. He’ll pretend it never happened, and eventually, he’ll forget it ever did.”

“He knows that’s unhealthy, right?”

“Don’t push him. He'll talk when he’s ready,” Rick said as he stood and went to join the other boys, helping start a fire.

Michonne sighed and sat down with them. She wet a rag with water from her canteen and faced Carl.

“Come here, kid,” She instructed him, turning his head toward her so she could clean the dried blood from his face.

“How’s the wrist?” Daryl asked in that mumble-y way he spoke that would’ve been oh-so-annoying from anyone else, but was oh-so-endearing coming from him.

Carl looked down at the wrist he had cradled in his lap. “Can’t move any of my fingers,” He groaned, trying each digit and coming up short.

“Don’t,” Rick scolded him softly, “You’ll only cause more damage.”

“It’s definitely broken,” Daryl noted, “Hell, I could hear the bone snap all the way across the clearing.”

Carl grimaced and Michonne laughed. “Glad you don’t remember hearing it, huh?”

Carl smiled and nodded.

“Try not to move it too much,” She told the boy, “It’ll heal up okay otherwise.”

Carl nodded, and they ate in silence. When they were done, they gathered what they could (Michonne and Carl checked the car while Daryl and Rick searched the bodies) and set out walking.

Carl made it a point not to look at what remained of his attacker’s face as he walked past.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Carl still hadn’t mentioned his attack. He was particularly quiet in general, actually. He didn’t contribute much to the conversation, and he was jumpy, flinching when a sound was made too close to him, like one of the others stepping on a twig, or when one of them brushed his arm. It was as if he didn’t feel safe at all, and it only made the guilt sit and fester in Rick's belly. He should’ve been there for his son. He should’ve protected him. After all, he was all Rick had left.

Michonne reported to Rick in sideline whispers, head shakes and mouthed words that Carl hadn’t even said anything to _her_. And she was his best friend, a trusted confidante.

Not that Rick was particularly looking forward to the conversation. He knew it would cause him emotional trauma at the expense of possibly healing Carl's, and that it would also force the boy to relive those memories. But as a former officer of the state, he'd sat in on many psychological exams of his prisoners, and he knew that keeping that kind of emotional damage inside, letting it stew in his brain rather than die on his lips was sure to fuck with his head. If he didn’t talk about it and work through it, he’d never get over it. He’d never feel safe again. Rick didn’t even care if it was him Carl told, as long as he told _someone_. Part of him wanted Michonne to be the one to have to deal with that torture, but he knew that as Carl's father, it was his job to gather the pieces, pick his boy off the ground and kiss the cuts and scrapes.

Daryl felt possibly even _more_ guilt than Rick. He wasn’t with those men long, but he thought they were at least good men, if a little shady. He never imagined them to be rapists, and certainly not pedophiles. And it was _his_ own expert tracking that had led them to his friends, his family. To Carl.

He noticed over the next two days that Carl subconsciously stayed between himself and Rick. Daryl happened to get behind him once, and as he looked at the boy to see if he was still limping (he was), he noticed the seat of his pants were stained dark red.

_Shit_ , he thought.

As Rick and Michonne set the walker traps at their chosen camp that day, Daryl announced that he and Carl were going hunting. Rick and Carl both shot him worried glances, but he calmed them both by promising that he wouldn’t let Carl out of his sight. Rick calmed a bit, knowing his boy was in good hands, with someone who loved him as much as someone not sharing a bloodline could. Despite Carl still remaining tense at the thought of being separated from his father, he knew he was safe with Daryl, and willingly walked into the woods with him.

They walked for a good fifteen minutes, neither one speaking, though Carl noticed that Daryl wasn’t in his tracking mode.

“Daryl, what are we-“ Carl stopped short when he heard the babbling of water over rocks.

Daryl smiled. He knew from the moss that there was a stream nearby.

The pair stepped between two low-hanging branches, and were suddenly on the bank of a clear, beautiful river.

“Wow,” Carl breathed, staring at the picturesque sight before him. Daryl, however, was less impressed, knowing what lied ahead in terms of conversation.

“Go ahead,” He said, nodding toward the river and tossing a small, solid object to Carl, who just barely caught it. A bar of soap from the prison. Michonne had the foresight to fill a pocket on her bag full of the trial-sized toiletries, so that in case they ever had to leave the prison in a hurry, they'd at least be clean for a while. Daryl must have nicked it from her earlier that morning.

Carl turned it absentmindedly as he spoke. “What do you mean, go ahead? What's this for?”

Daryl sighed. “You gotta wash your clothes, bud,” He said softly. Carl raised an eyebrow in confusion, and Daryl looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Your pants,” He explained, “There’s blood on them.”

Carl turned every shade of red there was when he caught the meaning of Daryl's words. Fuck. So much for pretending it never happened. “Oh,” He said softly, looking down at the ground.

“Yeah. You could probably use a wash, too,” Daryl added.

The boy blushed even more fiercely. “So could _you_ ,” He mumbled in an attempt to break the tension. It didn’t work.

“Go,” Daryl repeated, after Carl didn’t move. He gently pushed the boy forward. “I’ll keep watch.”

Carl nodded and set his gun and hat on the ground before carefully making his way down the slippery rocks of the riverbank, landing in water up to his stomach. Daryl only watched him long enough to see him strip off his shirt and unbutton his jeans. He conspicuously turned his back to the boy, giving him as much privacy as he could, considering their vulnerability to walkers, and Carl's recent anxiety at being alone.

Carl washed and wrung out his clothes quickly, having spent many days helping Carol with the laundry at the prison. After a quick, yet thorough, slightly painful washing of himself, he was certain that his skin and clothes were blood-free, and he redressed. He struggled with pulling wet clothes onto his wet body, and groaned internally when he realized that they definitely wouldn’t be dry before he went to bed that night (sleeping in wet clothes, ew), and they probably wouldn’t be dry before they continued their journey in the morning ( _hello_ , chafing!).

Still, he was grateful to Daryl for giving him a chance to wash away the memories he still felt on his skin, and he thanked him by offering to keep watch if Daryl wanted a makeshift shower.

Daryl laughed and set his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Thanks, but not today. You're gonna have to deal with my smelly ass for at least two more days.”

Carl chuckled and jabbed Daryl in the ribs. “Take a shower, redneck!”

“Bite me, pint-sized!”

Carl's chuckles turned into a full blown laugh. He hadn’t done this back and forth banter with Daryl in what seemed like forever, and they hadn’t called each other by their nicknames in even longer. Things were starting to feel normal again.

Rick and Michonne both raised an eyebrow when the two men walked back toward the camp, one toting four squirrels, the other dripping wet. But Daryl shook his head, and they both kept their questions silent. Though Rick noticed what he, too had seen earlier; the blood on Carl's pants had been washed away. He mouthed a ‘Thank you’ to Daryl as the flames of their campfire died down, and Daryl just nodded. 

Just like the past two nights, Carl set his ‘bed’ next to his father. And just like the past two mornings, he woke in Rick's arms.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl had taken to bringing Carl along with him while he hunted. He knew that Carl wasn’t gonna open up to anyone unprovoked. He also knew that keeping it inside wasn’t good for him. Rick had expressed his concerns to Daryl the day after the attack. Daryl promised to help, regardless of whatever terrible memories it brought for him.

****

“You know, bud,” Daryl started softly one day while he and Carl tracked a deer.

Carl looked at his older friend with rapt attention, turning his large, bright eyes on the man. The undivided attention Carl gave him made him a little uncomfortable, but he took a deep breath and continued.

“As much as you’ve grown the past few years, you're still a kid. Don’t think we’ve forgotten that. And the other day, what happened…”

“What are you talking about?”

Daryl sighed. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to ignore it, or pretend it never happened. That’s not healthy. That man, Dan, he was fucking sick. I didn’t know he was gonna-“

“Daryl,” Carl cut him off, his voice cracking, either from embarrassment, puberty, or him trying to hold back tears, “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Yeah, I know. But guess what, bud? You're gonna talk about it,” Daryl said sternly, stopping his walk. He grabbed Carl by the arm and jerked him back when he continued walking, “Cause I'm gonna _make_ you talk about it.”

“What do you want me to say, Daryl?” Carl yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. “I was attacked! Fucking _raped_ by some twisted pervert! I was violated and left bloody and bruised by some sick pedophile! And you want me to _talk_ about it? Okay, fine! Five days later, and my ass is still sore, I still wake up to find blood on my underwear, I can’t be touched by my own father without jumping four feet in the air, I have nightmares about the pressure of an unwanted body pressing me into the ground, and I don’t think I've _ever_ been more disgusted with myself! I still feel like I'm soaked with blood and _come_ in places I shouldn’t, and no matter how hard I scrub, I still feel dirty! Is that what you _fucking_ wanted to hear?” Carl roared, using both hands to push Daryl away, as hard as he could. His cheeks were wet and his eyes were glimmering with the tears he couldn’t hold back.

The boy turned to walk away, but Daryl grabbed him again, this time dropping his crossbow and securing him in place with vice-grips on both his arms.

“Yes, that _is_ what I wanted to hear! I want you to tell me how you feel, and everything you could do to that motherfucker if your father and I hadn’t dismembered him. I want you to talk about it instead of letting it sit and eat at you and eat at you until you're empty inside!” He screamed back, “Because that shit is bile, fucking venom, and you _can't_ keep it inside! Tell your father about your dreams and you won't have them anymore. Tell me about how you feel dirty, and I promise, the dirt’ll wash off!”

“How the fuck do _you_ know?” Carl asked, squirming out of his grip.

The pair stood there for a moment, both panting from screaming, tears dropping from Carl's chin.

“My father,” Daryl said finally, “He was a piece of shit. He was a drunk, a drug addict. He smacked me and my brother around, and he wasn’t shy about putting his hands on our mother, either. And he was the most respectable of all his friends. Wayne… he was my dad’s age, his best friend,” He explained, leaning against a tree and sliding down, sitting on the ground. Carl mimicked him, sitting down and hugging his knees.

“He’d come over and they'd get drunk and play poker till 3 am, till my old man passed out from too much moonshine. Once my dad was asleep, Wayne would make his way to my bedroom.”

Carl's mouth went dry.

“He never attacked me the way you were, but,” Daryl drew in a deep breath, “He’d touch me, you know? Fucking make me touch him. He was bigger than me, and stronger, too. I was scared, I was only 12. I did like you did, I kept it inside. I didn’t tell anyone. I had nightmares, and I was always looking over my shoulder, thinking he’d be right behind me. I couldn’t let anyone within two feet of me. I was constantly terrified. This went on for two years. Then one day, he took it too far. When I wouldn’t,” He shuddered, “When I wouldn’t open my mouth, he hit me. My mother asked me about the bruise, and I finally broke down and confessed what had been happening. I don’t know what she did, but I never saw Wayne again. And just like that, the nightmares got less frequent. After a while, I was less scared. It helped me to tell someone,” Daryl said, his voice cracking. Tears were threatening to fall, but he kept his eye contact with Carl. “I don’t want you to become dead inside like I did. We’re all sorry for what happened to you. You know we would’ve done anything to stop it.”

“I know,” Carl whispered.

“I’m sorry it happened to you, but you’ve gotta let it out. I know it hurts to talk about. Hell, I haven’t said a word about Wayne in more than 20 years. And yet, here I am, telling you about him because I'm trying to help you. Michonne, your father and I, we love you. We’re not trying to embarrass you by making you talk, but we want you to feel safe again. Sexual abuse leaves scars, scars nobody else can see. We’re just trying to help those scars heal a little. You gotta trust us, bud. You gotta let us help.”

Carl looked down to the ground and sniffled.

Daryl stood and walked over to him, extending a hand to help him off the ground. Carl took it, but instead of dropping Daryl's hand when he stood, he wrapped his arms around his stomach, squeezing so hard, it took Daryl's breath away. Daryl didn’t care, though. He just slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“I'm scared, Daryl,” Carl muttered into Daryl's shirt.

“I know, bud. I was scared for a long time, too. But you gotta work past that. You're so much stronger than I was. You can make it. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Carl nodded and stepped back, wiping his eyes and adjusting his hat. “Thank you,” He sniffled.

Daryl nodded. “Now, come on. Let’s see if we can catch that deer’s path again.”


	5. Chapter 5

Something was different. Rick couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something changed. The group’s (mainly Carl's and Daryl's) dynamic had changed.

After their ‘dinner’ (they couldn’t catch the deer again, so they settled for two rabbits), Daryl lured Michonne away under the pretense of re-checking the walker traps. Daryl gave Carl’s shoulder a squeeze for support as he walked past, and Carl took Michonne's seat next to his father.

Daryl and Michonne stayed just far enough to not be seen, yet close enough to hear the semi-private conversation.

Except there was no conversation at first. For a while, Rick simply stared into the crackling fire, while Carl roasted the end of a stick over and over, drawing shapes on a rock with the soot.

Though Rick could tell there was something Carl wanted to say. After a slightly awkward five minutes, Carl finally spoke.

“Dad?” He asked quietly, cursing his voice for cracking yet again.

“Yeah?” Rick asked, finally looking at his son, and surprised to see the younger blue eyes already trained on his face.

“What happened… a couple days ago…” Carl began, haltingly.

Rick's eyes widened. Carl was finally gonna talk about it?

“Yeah?” He repeated, straining to keep his voice level.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Carl choked out, tears almost instantaneous.

“Oh, Carl,” Rick breathed, reaching over and pulling Carl as close to him as he could get, hugging him securely. “Carl, I'm so sorry!” He cried.

“No, don’t be,” Carl sniffled against Rick's shoulder. “There was nothing you could’ve done to stop it. You did all you could, and they would’ve killed you if you tried anything else.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Rick argued.

Carl pulled back to look in his father’s eyes. “I’m alive, aren’t I? I'm breathing. I'm not a walker, and I'm not in the ground, so I’d say you're doing a pretty damn good job so far. Dad, listen. The world we knew is gone. There are some sick, twisted people out there, and you can’t protect me from all of them. And God, I…” He took a deep breath and sniffled, “I was terrified. So scared of closing my eyes for fear I’d see his face. I still am, and I still do, but I just wanted you to know that I'm gonna be strong. No, I don’t like remembering it, or re-living it, but it’s gonna get better. _I'll_ get better. I promise.”

Rick pulled Carl back against his chest and the two sat like that and sobbed for a few hours, until finally, both spent from crying, they both fell asleep.

****

When Carl woke up the next morning, he stretched and recalled his dreams.

He dreamt of Beth Greene, his first and only crush. He dreamt of his mom and his dad, their life before the apocalypse. He dreamt of the first and last times he got to hold his baby sister in his hands. But… he couldn’t remember Dan. Not once during the night did that evil, sadistic face pop into his head. He was already starting to heal.

He evidently didn’t give the redneck enough credit.


End file.
